Too Late For Regret, Mr. Booth

The VIP playroom door was heavy, soundproofed, designed to contain the noise of privileged children while their parents conducted business in adjacent conference rooms. Elise reached her daughter just as the boy, Jacob, took a hesitant step closer. She scooped Heaven into her arms, a primal wave of protectiveness washing over her. She turned to face the boy, her heart hammering against her ribs.

He was standing by a large, low table, where the largest Lego set Elise had ever seen was spread out in a state of half-completion-an architectural marvel of towers and bridges and intricate geometries.

Heaven, safe in Elise's arms, pointed a small finger. "Mommy, look. He's building a castle."

Across the table, motionless, sat the boy.

He was perhaps four, perhaps five, his age difficult to determine beneath the pallor of illness. Black curls framed a face of almost shocking precision-high cheekbones, straight nose, a mouth that looked like it had never learned to curve upward. His eyes, when they lifted to meet Elise's, were the color of winter ocean.

Her breath caught. Something in that gaze, in the set of those shoulders, in the particular angle of his jaw-

Jacob. The name hit Elise like a physical blow. She'd named her second son Jacob, in the secret hours of the night when she'd whispered to her belly and imagined futures that would never arrive.

"That's wonderful, baby." Her voice sounded distant, underwater. She held Heaven tighter, her eyes never leaving the boy's face. "Jacob, is it? I'm Elise. Heaven's mother."

The boy's expression didn't change. He looked at her with the flat assessment of a child who'd learned early that adults were unreliable, that interest was usually followed by disappointment.

"You're welcome," he said, his voice precise, British-educated, nothing like a New York child's. "She was coughing. I thought she might need water."

Heaven's head rested on Elise's shoulder. "He's smart, Mommy."

Elise saw. She saw the way the complex structural elements of the Lego set were meticulously organized. She saw the careful distance he maintained, the wall he'd built from loneliness and hospital rooms and whatever else his short life had contained.

"Thank you," she said again, meaning it more than she could express. "For being kind."

Jacob's shoulder twitched. Not quite a shrug. "I'm not kind. I'm efficient."

The door opened behind them. A nurse entered, her uniform crisp, her smile professional. "Jacob Booth? Time for your medication, sweetheart." She was holding a tablet, the screen glowing with a video call waiting to connect.

Booth.

The name turned Elise's blood to ice. She looked at the boy-really looked-and saw it now, the features she'd missed in her shock. The cheekbones were Callum's. The jaw. The way he held himself, rigid and controlled, as if emotion was a weakness he'd decided not to indulge.

"Jaida asked me to use the new imports," the nurse continued, approaching with a tray of pills and syringes. "She said they're much better for your condition. And she's on the line for you."

Jacob's face twisted. "I don't want her medicines. I don't want anything from her."

"Now, Jacob-"

"She's not my mother." The words were flat, factual, spoken with the certainty of a child who knew something the adults refused to admit. "She pretends. She smiles and buys things and thinks I don't notice. But I notice." He looked at Elise, suddenly, directly. "You notice things too. I can tell. Adults who notice are dangerous."

The nurse sighed and tapped the screen of the tablet. "Jacob, she insists."

Jaida's voice filled the room from the tablet's speaker, syrupy and false, every word a performance. "Jacob, baby! Mommy's coming up to see you. Are you being good for the nurses? Have you taken your medicine? I brought you a new video game, the one you wanted-"

"I don't want it." Jacob's voice didn't rise. It didn't need to. The contempt in it was absolute. "I don't want you. Go away."

"Jacob, sweetheart, don't be like that-"

He reached out and jabbed the 'end call' button on the tablet screen. The call disconnected.

Elise stared at him. At this small, sick, furious child who wore her ex-husband's face and her enemy's name and spoke with the weary cynicism of someone four times his age.

"You're Callum's son," she said. Not a question.

Jacob's eyes narrowed. "I'm a Booth. That's what matters. The rest is paperwork."

Heaven tugged at Elise's sleeve. "Mommy? Are you okay? You're shaking."

Elise looked at her daughter. At the boy who should have been her son, who was somehow Callum and Jaida's child, who existed in the world while Jacob and Iaan had turned to ash.

She stood too quickly. Her sudden movement startled Heaven, who let out a small cry.

"Come on, Heaven. We're leaving."

"But Mommy-"

"Now."

She scooped her daughter into her arms, ignoring the protest, ignoring the weight that pulled at her healing incision from four years ago, ignoring everything except the need to escape this room, this child, this impossible collision of past and present.

Behind her, Jacob sat motionless among the Lego pieces, watching her go with eyes that understood far too much for a boy his age.